IF

ADVICE TO LOVERS

ye would love and lovèd be,

In mind keep well these thingis three,
And sadly in thy breast imprent,—
Be secret, true, and patient!

For he that patience can not leir,
He shall displeasance have perquier,
Though he had all this worldis rent:
Be secret, true, and patient!

For who that secret can not be,
Him all good fellowship shall flee,

And credence none shall him be lent:
Be secret, true, and patient!

And he that is of heart untrue,
From he be ken'd, farewell! adieu!
Fie on him! fie! his fame is went :
Be secret, true, and patient!

Thus he that wants ane of these three
Ane lover glad may never be,

But aye in some thing discontent :
Be secret, true, and patient!

Nought with thy tongue thyself discure
The thingis thou hast of nature;
For if thou dost, thou should repent:

Be secret, true, and patient!

JOHN HEYWOOD

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY

GIVE PLACE, you Ladies! and begone;

Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth One
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;

I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy:

It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where She her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could

So fair a creature make.

She may be very well compared
Unto the Phoenix kind,

Whose like was never seen or heard

That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste,

In truth Penelope;

In word and eke in deed steadfast :

What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her rosiall colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,

More readier too than doth the rose,

Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Ne at no wanton play,

Nor gazing in an open street,

Nor gadding as a stray.

The modest mirth that she doth use

Is mix'd with shamefacedness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair
And deck in her such honesty
Whom Nature made so fair.

Truly She doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days
As doth the gillyflower a weed,
And more a thousand ways.

How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
For all the rest are plain but chaff

Which seem good corn to be.

HEYWOOD

This gift alone I shall her give:
When Death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

NICOLAS GRIMAOLD

5

A TRUE LOVE

What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true Love is to me;
As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed,

As morning bright with scarlet sky doth pass the evening's weed,
As mellow pears above harsh crabs esteemed be,

So doth my Love surmount them all whom yet I hap to see.

The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray,

The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay,

Or I my Love let slip out of mine entire heart:

So deep reposèd in my breast is She for her desert.

For many blessed gifts, O happy, happy land!

Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand;

Yet, land! more is thy bliss that in this cruel age

A Venus imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage.
Among the Muses nine a tenth if Jove would make,

And to the Graces three a fourth, Her would Apollo take.
Let some for honour hunt, or hoard the massy gold:

With Her so I may live and die, my weal can not be told.

୮"

مريم

BARNABE GOOGE

TO THE TUNE OF APELLES

HE rushing rivers that do run,

THE

The vallies sweet adorned new

That lean their sides against the sun,

With flowers fresh of sundry hue, Both ash and elm, and oak so high, Do all lament my woeful cry.

While winter black with hideous storms Doth spoil the ground of summer's green, While spring-time sweet the leaf returns That late on tree could not be seen, While summer burns, while harvest reigns, Still, still do rage my restless pains.

No end I find in all my smart,

But endless torment I sustain, Since first, alas! my woeful heart

By sight of thee was forced to plain,— Since that I lost my liberty,

Since that thou madest a slave of me.

My heart, that once abroad was free,

Thy beauty hath in durance brought;

Once reason ruled and guided me,

And now is wit consumed with thought;

Once I rejoiced above the sky,

And now for thee, alas! I die.